


Oceans (Where Feet May Fail)

by myglassesaredirty



Series: Oh Boy, Kiddo [7]
Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, Spider-Man: Homecoming
Genre: A LOT of Angst, Angst, F/M, Gen, Hypothermia, Implied Character Death, Life or Death Situation, PTSD, fear of the ocean, intensity intensifies, lifeguard training
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-12
Updated: 2018-02-12
Packaged: 2019-03-17 04:39:54
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,642
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13651620
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/myglassesaredirty/pseuds/myglassesaredirty
Summary: His plane goes down in the middle of the ocean, with no way for anyone to track them, let alone save them. They try to swim away, but the ocean is bigger and stronger.All they want is to survive. They don’t even ask to recover.





	Oceans (Where Feet May Fail)

**Author's Note:**

> HOO boy, this was inspired by that Hillsong song that I heard in singing chapel one day. I did not intend for it to be like this.

_Cold. Dark. Wet. Cold. Dark. Wet. Cold.  
_   
He can’t see anything. The darkness swells around him, and he can’t breathe, he can’t see, he can’t speak. He continues to sink, and he wants to cry, to call for help, but every time he opens his mouth, nothing escapes.  
  
He leaves his jacket on for the sake of what little warmth it offers, but he bends over and pulls his shoes off. He doesn’t know how far away the bottom is. He doesn’t care. He just needs to get up.  
  
He feels a spike of pain in his heart, and his brain releases a spike of adrenaline in his panic. His arc reactor. What will the water do to it? Will it short it out? He can’t survive this, this will kill him –  
  
The salt stings his eyes, and the pressure of the ocean weighs upon him, bringing him back to where he is. The ocean. He’s not in Afghanistan. He’s no longer holding onto a car battery to survive.  
  
He claws at the tie clinging to his throat as he kicks in the direction of the surface. His lungs burn and he’s dying, dying, but he needs to get this stupid thing _off_.  
  
_Cold. Dark. Wet._  
  
His fingers finally free him of the knot choking him, and he fumbles to unbutton the top button. His tie floats in the water, touching his foot, but the current rushes in and takes it away from him.  
  
_Water. Dangerous. Cold. Dark. Wet._  
  
His eyes burn as much as his lungs do, and he tries to claw his way up to the ceiling of water. He thinks he sees light trying to poke through, but he doesn’t dare get his hopes up. He just swims in its general direction.  
  
The light becomes brighter, bigger, warmer. His lungs hurt. He wants to breathe. His eyes are watering from both tears and the salt water. His clothes weigh him down. It’s cold.  
  
_Cold. Bright. Wet. Heavy. Cold._  
  
His hand breaks through the surface of the water, and he tries to grip it, tries to climb out of it. Despite his failure to grab hold of the slippery surface, he manages to kick his way up, and suddenly, he’s free.  
  
He sucks in a breath so deep that it hurts. The air is clean, and a wave comes and hits him in the face. He shakes his head, his wet hair clinging to his forehead, and he treads water as he searches for his companions.  
  
No pilot. The plane was on autopilot. No attendants. No Rhodey, Happy, or Pepper.  
  
No one except him and…  
  
And Peter.  
  
He doesn’t feel the cold right now. Now, his body has spiked with adrenaline and he kicks up higher to look around the expanse of water, blue and never-ending. He’s numb, but he’s hot, as his eyes search desperately for a mop of brown hair to match his own.  
  
_Cold. Dark. Wet. Dangerous. Heavy. Cold. Dark. Wet._  
  
He opens his mouth to scream, “Peter!”  
  
But before he can, a wave hits him in the face and sends him under again.  
  
\---

His ankle is on fire.

It’s wedged in the tight space between the wall and one of the seats. He tries to bend over to wrench it out of there, but he can hardly see, and the salt is seeping into his skin, drying it out. The water rushes into his eyes and his ears, and he can hear the roar of an ocean angered with the intruders, and a shiver runs down his spine. He can feel a single drop of water slither down the bones of his spine, and he grits his teeth and tries again.

The current causes the seatbelt next to him to float up a little and cover his mouth. In that moment, he panics, thinking he’s trapped by his own parachute, and he screams, but no sound comes out; only a wall of water comes in.

He starts coughing and he _knows_ , deep in his bones, that he can’t waste his breaths. He’s stuck, but he needs to get up to the surface – he can see the sun through the surface of the water, and maybe it’s far away, and maybe the heat doesn’t reach him, but it’s there. He’s close.

Pain travels from his ankle up to his brain, and he starts thrashing around, forgetting entirely about saving energy. Somewhere, he thinks he hears his name being called, but it’s just a trick, a trick of nature, because he’s alone and underwater and he might just die.

It’s cold. Cold, dark, and wet.

He hates it.

_Salty. Heavy. Loud._

He braces one hand against the wall and the other on the headrest and uses all of his strength to push himself out of the precarious situation he’s found himself in.

_Salty. Heavy. Loud. Cold. Wet. Dark._

He doesn’t know where he’s supposed to be going, since the only ray of light he can see is coming through a window. He doesn’t know where the door is, or for that matter, any opening in the plane whatsoever.

He’s not risking it. He’s running out of air, and he needs to get out. He swims over to the window, his ankle dangling uselessly behind him. It’s still on fire.

He curls an arm around the headrest and curls his other hand into a fist. One punch.

Too slow. Too much water. _Heavy. Wet. Salty. Cold. Dark. Loud._

Two punches.

Faster. Nothing changes.

Three.

_Dark. Heavy. Salty. Wet. Cold. Loud._

Four.

His hand hurts. It’s dark. _Wet. Cold. Heavy. Salty. Loud._

Five.

A single crack, yet not enough to bring his hopes up.

Six.

Not enough air, not enough time.

Seven.

The crack grows larger.

Eight.

The edges of his vision get darker. It’s cold. _Wet. Heavy. Loud._

Nine.

His hand is broken.

Ten.

The window breaks.

He hasn’t accounted for the fact that he can’t fit through the window, but he has no other option. He sticks his head through the small opening and wiggles his body through it. He doesn’t know how he manages to get out in the end, but he keeps swimming towards the light, and it’s only once he can he feel its warmth that he wonders if it’s the wrong light.

But he emerges from the water, coughing and breathing, breathing and coughing.

_Warm. Alive. Quiet._

“Peter!”

He turns his head for the source of the scream, but as his eyes scan the desert of water, he can find nothing.

His face falls, and he clings to the tip of the plane’s wing as it slowly sinks.

_Cold. Lost. Quiet. Alone._

\---

The water drags him away, and he’s too weak to fight it. He breaks the surface, coughing and spluttering, eyes frantic as he desperately searches for the boy that was flying with him. He needs to be okay. He needs to be okay. He needs to be, he needs to be, he needs to be.

It’s cold.

There’s no way to get out of the mess that he’s found himself in. No tracker, no phone, nothing to save him now except maybe the good graces of God.

But if Peter’s still alive, God only knows how quickly Tony would give that boy the only chance they may have.

He shakes his head in an effort to clear the fog from his brain. Clouds are beginning to gather, and the wind causes a chill to run up his arms.

He would almost prefer to be underwater.

He can still see parts of the plane sticking out of the water, and he starts swimming in that general direction. The waves are stronger than he, and his jacket causes unnecessary drag, but he fights the waves as much as possible. If only he can get there. If only he can be safe. If only, if only, if only to be free.

Instead, he’s doomed to die.

He’s not prepared for this at all. He’s never needed to prepare for this, but now, when his life depends on it, he needs experience that he never took the time to earn.

He underestimates the size of the next wave coming because it engulfs him and sends him back under, a mess of frantic limbs and water. He fights his way to the surface, only to find another wave of the same magnitude heading in his direction.

He sucks in a breath and dives back underwater, feeling the water ripple over his back as he desperately wonders where Peter is.

\---

He shakes violently as he clings to what’s left of the plane. He briefly entertained the idea of diving back underwater to look for something to save them now, but he’s not strong enough – his wrist is broken, his ankle is broken, it’s all wrong and he’s scared.

He’s going to die out here.

The wind continues to blow, and he ducks his head, feeling a shiver race up his spine. He presses his lips together, and the water is cold, cold, just so cold and he wants to go home, but home is all the way across the Atlantic and they’re caught somewhere in the middle.

The movies always show characters stacked against the odds and defeating them, and he wants to be able to draw some hope from that, to believe that he can beat the odds, but as he trembles against the harsh cold, the angry ocean, and the biting wind, he knows deep in his heart that he can’t. He can’t beat this. The opponent is too big, too strong this time, and he can’t…he just can’t do it.

So he clings to that wing like the lifeline that it is, and he fights against the brutal cold. His body jerks violently from time to time, and occasionally, he catches his name on the wind.

But it’s just a trick of nature because Tony…

Tony is dead.

There’s no other explanation. Tony wasn’t with Peter when the plane went down. He’s gone, dead, buried in the sea, in a place that was never prepared to accept him.

His lips are blue, his face is pale, his fingers can barely curl around the edge of the wing, but he’s okay. He has to be okay. The waves rise and fall, and he’s fighting to keep his head above water, fighting to take another breath without expending too much energy. The water comes up to choke him, and he turns his head to cough, to spit out the disgusting taste of salt water, but it keeps coming back, and he just wants to throw up.

He’s going to die out here, and he’s going to be alone.

\---

**TUESDAY. 08:30 AM. PARIS, FRANCE.**

Tony rapped on the door to Peter’s room. “Kid?” he said. “You ready? We need to get going.”

“Almost ready!” Peter shouted through the closed door.

Tony rolled his eyes and leaned against his suitcase, pulling his phone out of his pocket to make it seem as if he was doing something productive. He opened his email, briefly scanning through some of the things Pepper had sent him, but he quickly exited out of it and opened his Instagram instead.

Peter opened the door wide, wearing a green t-shirt sporting another science pun ( _seriously_ , Tony thought, _where did the kid even find them?_ ), jeans, and a gray jacket that was more than a little short.

Tony smiled softly and jerked his head in the direction of the elevators. “Come on, kid, it’s a nine hour flight. I don’t want to drag it out any longer than necessary.”

Peter rolled his eyes. “It’s a self-flying plane. Can’t you just design it to go faster?”

Tony tousled Peter’s hair. “ _No_ ,” he said good-naturedly, grabbing his suitcase handle. “That would be dangerous.”

“You literally fly around in a metal suit for no reason whatsoever.”

Tony looked over his shoulder and pointed his index finger at Peter. “To save the world, kid. That’s why I do it.”

Peter rolled his eyes again. “Can we at least stop for some McDonald’s?”

Tony shrugged. “I’m in the mood for a burger.”

\---

**PRESENT: TUESDAY. 1:25 PM. 40º N, 30º W.**

He chokes out another mouthful of salt water, gagging as another wave forces him to swallow the water he’d just spit out. It’s cold, and the clouds above him are threatening.

He doesn’t like the sight of them.

The plane is almost close enough for him to touch, almost within his reach. He can see Peter clinging to the wing, and he opens his mouth to call to him, but his voice is scratchy, and it can’t carry above the howl of the wind.

From where he bobs with the waves, Peter looks like the shell of a boy. The gray jacket hugging his body likely is the only thing offering him some sort of warmth, and Tony wishes he could change that, but the truth of the matter is he has no idea where they are, and they have no way to make it all the way back to New York City. In fact, they’re short on time. He gives it another hour, maximum, before hypothermia sets in and starts killing them, and the thought of it all causes him to turn his head to throw up into the ocean.

He gets another wave in the face for doing so.

He shoves his face in the water to wash off the vomit, and then he continues swimming in the direction of the shivering little kid. He lifts his chin above the surface of the water, and with every little bit of strength left in his voice, he shouts, “Peter!”

Peter perks up, not letting his grip on the wing loosen. He searches for the source of the sound but seems to give up when he can’t immediately see Tony.

“Peter!”

His voice is raw and scratchy, and it hurts his throat to keep shouting. But he has to. Peter has to look at him, has to look for him, has to be at least on the spectrum of okay.

Peter turns his head in Tony’s direction, and Tony waves one hand in the air. Peter shows no change, but then, Tony’s not close enough to see Peter’s face.

By the time he’s close enough to see Peter, he can tell that Peter has a lot less time than he does.

“Kid,” he breathes out, and Peter hears him, and he’s clinging to the boy like he’s a lifeline. “You’re safe,” he says, his fingers running through the tangled mess that is now Peter’s hair.

Peter nods, his teeth chattering too much for him to say anything. But he clings to Tony, too.

“Listen to me,” Tony says, unwilling to let go of Peter just yet. “We’re gonna swim in some random direction, and we’re gonna find some kind of boat, and we’ll be okay. We’re going to be okay.”

Peter nods, but Tony knows he doesn’t believe him.

Tony doesn’t even believe himself.

\---

He tries to take a stroke, but his arms can hardly move. Chills continue to race up and down his spine, and he forces his hands to curl into a fist, if only so he can get the blood flowing, if only he can prove to himself that he’s still living. He sniffles, and his eyes scan the ocean, hoping for some break from the expanse of blue and blue and blue. Thunder rolls, and he starts coughing.

They’re not going to get out of here.

“Come on,” Tony says with a jerk of his head. “I think that’s…west?”

Peter shakes his head but starts swimming after him anyways. “I-I think-think it’s no-north, Mr. Stark.” His teeth click together so violently that he briefly thinks he’s chipped at least one.

Tony stops where he is, treading water as he tries to keep his head up above the waves. “Hm. You might be right. And the farther north we go, the colder it will get.” He continues to float as he weighs all the options.

“I’m-I’m tired, Mr. Stark.”

Tony’s head snaps up, and he grips Peter’s shirt collar, holding his head above the water. “No. Listen to me, do not close your eyes for any reason.”

He blinks foggily, and he’s lost. There’s no one around him. The water is warm, and he dips his hand underneath the surface, carefully lifting it to watch how the water spills out of his cupped hand. He smiles, freely, turning his face toward the warm sun. His toes can touch the bottom, and it’s soft and smooth. A fish swims by him, bright and colorful and wonderful. He could stay here forever.

“Kid?”

_Warm. Wonderful. Bright._

He’s shaken roughly, and he squints into Tony’s eyes. The warmth is all gone, and so is the sun. Clouds loom over them, and he’s trembling from cold and staring at a man scared stiff.

“Are you okay?”

It’s hard for him to hear. It feels like the noise is coming from underwater.

Tony taps his cheek. “Blink twice if you’re with me.”

Peter hunches his shoulders when a chill races up his spine. Licking his lips, he twists his head in both directions before he asks, “Wh-where are we?”

Tony starts breathing faster. “Okay. Okay, this is just…it’s just hypothermia. Which is really bad. Shit, no, I can’t have a panic attack now.”

The words barely register in Peter’s brain. He tilts his head, and beyond Tony’s shoulder, he can see the very water he was just in. The warmth of it beckons to him, and he starts swimming in its direction.

“Peter? Peter!”

He doesn’t stop swimming.

A wave crashes over him and sends him back under. The water is cold, and his entire body stiffens, reacting to the instinctual panic that immediately sets in.

_Dark. Heavy. Cold._

He breaks the surface, trembling and coughing, wheezing for air when he can. He can’t see Tony. The water is freezing, and his fingers are becoming numb. There’s no land anywhere nearby. That mirage is so far out of reach that he could swim forever and never reach it.

And no one’s looking for them.

Another wave comes and pushes him under the water, and he briefly contemplates just letting it be at that. Not swimming up to the surface, not taking another breath. But he feels someone’s hand grip his bicep and pull him upwards, in the direction of air, and it’s only once he’s heaving salt water and he feels someone holding him above the waves that he realizes that Tony is still alive.

He can’t leave Tony behind.

He shakes the water out of his eyes. His body jerks violently with another shiver running up his spine. “Um,” he licks his lips. “I think…I mean we only were flying for…um, we were only flying for…for…” He squints and blinks rapidly, trying to move past the empty space in his brain. He was saying something important. He knows that much.

Tony nods. “About four hours, yeah.”

Peter nods. “Um…shouldn’t that put us close to…uh, close to, uh…”

“The islands. Probably closest to Portugal, but there’s no guarantee that we’re even that close.”

Peter nods again and shivers. He can’t feel his feet. Does he even have feet? He doesn’t know.

“We-we-we should start swimming. See-see if we can find it.”

Tony regards him with one of his “dad looks,” but there is no other way out of this. No one’s looking to find them. Even if people were, they can’t just stay in the same spot for more than a minute at a time. Blood circulation is dwindling, and they need to get their body temperatures up.

Tony shakes his head and starts pushing Peter in a random direction. “The only way out is through,” he mumbles.

\---

**ATLANTIC OCEAN. 1:36 PM. 40.00974º N, 30º W.**

A cruise ship, the _S.S. Canterbury_ , travels along, unsuspecting of any potential danger. A storm gathers, but the passengers just head down below deck, ready to enjoy dinner and games.

They can’t hear the two people begging for help.

Instead, the festivities continue.

\---

_Tired. Cold. Sick. Numb._

Tony makes sure that Peter keeps swimming, that he keeps moving. He doesn’t know how long either of them can last, but it’s not for much longer. They’re not trained swimmers. They haven’t prepared to swim the English Channel. It was by sabotage and someone’s hatred for him that even led them into this predicament in the first place.

He keeps his hand on Peter’s shoulder.

Peter can barely move, and he uses most of his effort to push his head higher above water and cough. Occasionally, he’ll start dry heaving.

Tony has made sure that Peter can’t get his clothes off. He’s since stopped shivering, and Tony is desperate at this point, desperate to make sure Peter stays alive. His body isn’t regulating heat anymore, and that sets them both up for a very, very dangerous situation.

_Dangerous. Lost. Searching. Tired. Sick._

He can’t feel his hands anymore.

They keep pushing on, in what they think is the same continual direction, but Tony knows better, knows that they’re lost and stranded and God only knows where. He looks to the sky and begs any deity worth praying to that they can be found, that they will be saved.

Thunder rolls.

They keep pushing on.

Icicles have begun to form at the base of Peter’s hairline, and Tony starts counting the minutes left.

_Tick, tock._

One stroke after the other. One after the other. At some point, Peter loses mobility in his left arm and resorts to kicking.

_Tick, tock. Tick, tock._

Peter stops swimming and buries his face in the water. The waves lift him upwards, and Tony yanks Peter by his hood. It’s certainly not gentle, and maybe he should have tried other means, but it shakes Peter awake.

“Wha?”

“Don’t die on me yet, kid. Not yet.” Tony wraps Peter’s arm around his shoulders and kicks on, checking to see if Peter’s still awake. When it looks like he’s fallen asleep, Tony taps his cheek, and Peter blinks himself awake.

_Tick, tock, tick, tock, tick, tock._

It’s been hours. Days. He doesn’t know. He can’t know. He knows he’s burning up, and he wants to cool off, but Peter’s about to die, he’s about to close his eyes, and Peter’s the first priority. Peter will drown out here. No, he needs to keep swimming.

_Tick, tock, tick, tock, tick, tock, tick, tock._

Blue stretches everywhere. From his left to his right, it’s just an endless desert of blue water. It grows deeper and colder, and he has no idea where he is in the grand scheme of things. He can’t feel anything, and his hands have practically frozen around Peter’s wrist, but Peter’s still alive.

That has to count for something…right?

_Tick tock tick tock tick tock tick tock tick tock._

It’s warm. Bright, even. The water has a greenish hue, not the same unforgiving blue it was mere moments ago. It’s gentle.

He tilts his head back, basking in the glow of the sun. He could stay here forever, in this comfort, in this world.

Thunder rolls.

He shakes his head. Wakes up. Looks over to see Peter with his chin touching his chest. He jostles him, but he doesn’t move.

And he looks up to the god of thunder, begging him to tell his friends where they are.

\---

**AIRSPACE. 2:21 PM. 39.9857º N, 30.00542º W.**

He sees them.

More accurately, he sees Tony holding Peter.

“Pep, I’ve got eyes on them.”

Rhodey swoops down from the air, closing in on the two dots he can see through his faceplate. By the time he reaches them, he can hear Tony muttering something under his breath. He hears “Yinsen” and “I love you, Mom,” and finally, “Hey, Jarvis, nice to see you again.”

He has to act now.

He hovers slightly above the surface of the water, just out of reach of the waves. “Tony. Hey, Tones, look up.”

Tony seems to hear him, but he stops for a moment, stops mumbling, like he’s lost a part of himself, like he doesn’t know who or where he is.

“Tony? Up here, man.”

Tony blinks up, squinting at his savior. “Who are you?”

“Your saving grace, man. Here, look, do you want me to get Peter first? There’s a chopper on the way, but I can only carry one of you at a time.”

At the mention of Peter’s name, Tony snaps awake. He manages to position Peter so that Rhodey can reach out and grab the boy, pulling him in close to the metal chest. “Make sure you get him to safety. Don’t worry about me.”

Rhodey cocks his head. “I’ll be back, Tony. Don’t go anywhere.”

Thunder rumbles.

Rhodey flies.

Peter dies.

\---

He returns for Tony five minutes later.

“I found a ship, Tones. They’re –” he breaks off. “Peter’s with them.”

Tony looks up, wide-eyed and innocent. “He’s safe?”

Rhodey tries to force a smile, but he just can’t do it. That’s what the faceplate is for, he guesses. “He’s out of the woods.”

Tony stretches out his hand, ever-trusting in the face of death. Rhodey takes his hand.

And maybe one day, Tony will look back on this moment and blame him, blame him for taking away the best chance he ever had of dying – of thinking his kid was safe, knowing that he had done all he could for him; in such a cold-induced confusion that he felt nothing but bliss, but Rhodey…

He has to get Tony back to that ship.

By the time he can see it, he gets a call.

Peter’s heart is beating again.

\---

**NEW YORK CITY. TWO WEEKS LATER. WEDNESDAY. 4:45 PM.**

He feels like death itself.

A machine beeps next to his ear, and he tries to sit up, but when his body protests against it, he settles on scanning the rest of the room. The lights are sterile white, the hum unnerves him, and the chair next to him is empty. A cup of coffee, half-empty, sits on the table beside his bed, but other than that, there is no sign that there has been another human being in the hospital room.

The door creaks open, and May slips inside, quietly closing it behind her. The blinds are drawn, and the moment the blinding light comes shining through, he’s glad that they are.

She turns around and sees him looking at her. “You’re awake,” she sighs. It’s not of relief or irritation, like he’s used to with her. Just…exhaustion. “Peter’s still…he’s still in a coma.”

Tony furrows his brow. “Last I heard, he was out of the woods.”

She tries to force a smile, pulling up the chair by his bedside. “That’s what Rhodey wanted you to think. He was…” She doesn’t want to say it, but she does, she needs to tell him. “Legally dead. Three minutes. Almost didn’t make it out alive. Clint came in at the right moment and flew you guys back to Portugal for a couple days until you were stable enough to come home.”

“Which was…?”

“Last week. Saturday.” She laughs, or tries to, but it’s hard when there are tears in her eyes and torn pieces of her heart. “Longest damn week of my life.”

Tony looks at her solemnly, trying to tell her without words that he tried, he really did, he did what he knew to do to save Peter. He kept his head above water, tried to keep him awake, but it wasn’t enough, it’s never enough. Even though Peter was the only thing that kept him going, the only reason he never gave into the sweet temptation of death, he couldn’t because Peter’s life was on the line. But…it was all for nothing, wasn’t it? Peter did die, in the end.

He may be revived, he may live again, but he’s not…

He won’t ever come back from that experience.

And it’s as he looks at May Parker and as she silently tells him about the pact that they share but somehow don’t share with each other, he knows. “I tried, May,” he chokes out.

She shushes him and reaches to cover his left hand with her own. “I know, Tony. I know.”

\---

A week later, and Tony can stand. He’s lucky that the frostbite didn’t require amputation. Even Peter is lucky.

Peter.

That boy is still stuck in that damn coma.

His body temperature is up, and his heart is still beating, but his brain suffered extreme damage. That cold got to him in a way that couldn’t reach Tony. It traveled into Peter’s body on a cellular level, while Tony’s cold only went bone-deep. Peter fell into a confusion earlier than he, and by the time Rhodey came…

Tick, tock, goes the clock.

Tony doesn’t want to think about Peter, doesn’t want to hear about him, doesn’t even want to hear his name. Naturally, this leads to him reading through his homework and notes like the proud parent he isn’t. He reads these papers knowing that Peter might never speak again, might never wake up again. Even if he does come back to them, there’s that underlying fear of flying, of water, of an emptiness that only space can match.

He did this to him.

Maybe it wasn’t him directly, but there was that…that _bastard_ with no regard for the life of a teenage boy. Of a kid that hasn’t even had his first kiss, if their last real conversation was anything to go by. A kid who has yet to graduate high school.

He wants revenge so badly that he can taste it, but he can’t hurt Peter anymore than he already has. And maybe he should tell Peter once he’s back on his feet, that it’s too dangerous for him to be involved with Tony Stark/Iron Man, but he knows that he’ll just take one look at the kid who’s about to break, and his resolve will fly out the window. Maybe it’s selfish and maybe it’s not, but he’ll never do it. Not until it needs to be done.

So he sits in the hospital room.

And he reads.

\---

He feels water rushing into his mouth, salty and rough, and he sits up, gasping and choking. He gags at the memory of it, tries to claw it out of his throat, and his fingernails scratch red lines on the skin of his throat.

Someone grabs his hand roughly, and he still can’t see, still faces a wall of water, and when he’s shaken, he imagines being shoved under again and again, repeatedly until he’s lost and can’t find his way out. Cold crashes over him, rushes through him, and he still chokes and gags, pushes against whatever’s gripping at him. He feels the anger of the ocean all over again, and he fights against it, he fights what tries to pin him down, and he opens his mouth to scream, and –

And noise comes out.

He opens his eyes finally, only to find himself in a hospital room. Rhodey grips Peter’s shoulder with one hand and his wrist with the other, searching his eyes to make sure he’s…alive, maybe. Not crazy.

Peter looks down to see his hands shaking, and he flexes his fingers a bit before curling his hands into fists. He doesn’t want to see them trembling. When he looks up, he can see in Rhodey’s expression that he looks small, that he looks young, that he looks like someone who should never have had to deal with nearly drowning in an ocean.

He might agree.

Rhodey sits there for a moment until the door opens and a nurse pokes his head through. Peter doesn’t hear what they say – it’s nothing like being underwater; he tunes them out, zeroes in on the fabric of his blanket, eyes tracing the tiny seams, picking out specks of lint and hair. The door closes again and Rhodey leans back in his chair.

He doesn’t ask Peter about the experience, and Peter doesn’t ask how he got out of it. He just sits in relative silence until May comes in, a flurry of disbelief and tears and love. When he sees her for the first time in weeks, he doesn’t want to hold her. He doesn’t want to cry into her shoulder. No, he just wants to push her away because she just can’t _understand_.

But when she swoops in and hugs him close, grounding him and taking him away from the smell of the ocean, he finally relaxes and lets himself breathe. She smells like vanilla and coffee – the good kind, the kind that Peter will almost consider drinking. She runs her fingers through his hair, gently untangling the hair that knotted because of the ocean. She’s warm, nothing at all like the ocean – she’s kind where it wasn’t, soft where it was harsh.

So while he might want Tony because Tony _understands_ , he lets May hug him and bring him back to New York City.

She sits next to him now that Rhodey has left and talks about anything but the incident – MJ has apparently started writing a book, Ned is desperately trying to catch up on subjects before the school year starts so he’ll understand the material. The weather’s been nice, and May has read quite a few books lately, some bad and some good, but none of them great. An old flame approached her one day and started hitting on her and she hit him with her purse.

It’s almost like he’s home sick with the flu.

She leaves when he falls asleep, and he almost tells her not to leave, but he knows whether she’s close by or far away, he’ll still dream of the water – of being trapped in it, bobbing up and down with the waves, shivering so much that his body eventually stopped. He knows that he died; Rhodey never told him and neither did May, but he can see it in both of their expressions, the way they look at him as if they don’t want to let him go or let him out of their sight.

His eyes close, and his ankle is on fire.

His breathing slows, and he’s trapped in that airplane, seeing a light, but it’s too far away, too cold that he doesn’t go after it. He’s just relieved when it starts coming to him.

He falls into a deep sleep, and he’s being tossed with the waves, mercilessly being shoved under time and again, salt spraying into his eyes and his mouth, choking him and rushing down his throat. It throws him like a rag doll, like he’s nothing in the great expanse of the ocean, and maybe it’s right, maybe he’s nothing next to the ocean.

He thrashes against the waves, against the sheets of his bed, and he’s underwater, swimming away from the chasing cold of death, but it’s faster than him, stronger than him.

“Peter!”

His name on the breeze, quiet but loud enough to reach him. But no, it’s just a trick of the wind until the waves shake him awake and he’s staring into Tony’s frantic eyes.

Tony breathes out a sigh of relief and lowers himself into the chair by Peter’s bedside. They don’t talk about Peter’s nightmare; they just stay awake and stare at ground or the blankets. The clock ticks, telling time, telling them that nothing ever stopped for them except his heart, except what was most important to survival.

He stares at his hands fiddling with the hem of the blanket, and he knows he’s scared of the water.

\---

It takes time, but he walks again. At first, he needs Rhodey’s help, with his hand clutching tightly to Rhodey’s as he takes step after step. His aunt watches and stands at the opposite end of the room.

Tony left him books with which to entertain him as he shuts himself in the lab. Peter wants to go down there, but the walk from one side of the room to the other was exhausting enough. So he reads through the books, fiddling with a pen, marking notes in the margins.

Ned and MJ sometimes stop by and tell him about what’s been going on recently. Flash hasn’t moved yet, despite their strongest prayers, but he’s not as much of an asshole, so it’s a little better. Ned started dating Betty Brant about a week ago. Norman Oscorp had to file for bankruptcy, but they’re putting off telling Mr. Stark because he’ll die right then and there from pure happiness. MJ has started applying to colleges, and Harvard is still her first choice school, but she’s looking at other options.

It’s refreshing and it’s nice, but Peter wants Tony. Wants to look that man in the eyes and say he can’t do it, he can’t ever get on a plane again or get in a pool to go swimming, can’t ever look at the Hudson without his heart beating out of his chest and the taste of salt water choking him. He wants to ask if the fear gets easier, or even if it goes away, but he can’t, he can’t, he _can’t_.

He’s cleared from the hospital six weeks after being stranded in the ocean, but he never looks in the direction of water again. He can’t look out the window and admire the Hudson, nor can he watch the Atlantic as it passes by him as he’s safe and dry in the car. It’s cold in there. Cold and wet and dark and heavy and _loud_. So loud.

It’s two in the morning, and he’s been staring at the ceiling for the better part of three hours. He sighs, rolls onto his side, and picks up his phone. It’s still a little bright, but he taps a specific rhythm on the screen, and it dims. He unlocks it and scrolls through his contacts, finally clicking on Tony’s. His message is short.

**does the fear ever go away???**

He drops his phone on his chest once his text is sent, bringing his arm up to cover his eyes. He huffs through his lips, and in the darkness, in the dryness, he almost doesn’t think of the ocean and its unforgiveness. He thinks of Star Wars and MJ’s laugh, of Decathlon practice and robotics club. He is reminded of thick jackets and sandwiches with a lot of bread, of hot chocolate and the occasional snow day. None of it is what he remembers from the past six weeks, but maybe that’s good. Maybe he’s getting better.

A chill runs up his spine, and he gasps, suddenly remembering the single drop of water trickling down his back, as the single drop added up more and more and he could feel every single one of them, and each one was hammering a nail in his coffin, in the coffin that almost closed.

His phone buzzes, and he picks it up.

**if it does, i’ll let you know**

\---

**APRIL 13, 2018. FRIDAY. 3:14 PM. AVENGERS TOWER, NEW YORK CITY.**

“You did what?”

Tony glances over his shoulder and swipes the hologram to the left. “I signed you up for a lifeguarding course.”

Peter watches from his chair. “Why?”

“You’re a self-sacrificial teenager with no sense of self-preservation. You’re never going to stop helping people. This is probably the safest way to do it, especially since you usually get involved with people who have guns and/or alien technology.”

Peter fiddles with his hands. “When is it?”

Tony squints at the hologram and magnifies the image. “Next weekend. Better brush up on your swimming. I have some swimsuits in the living room, if you want to take a look.”

Peter stands slowly, wearily nodding his head. “I’ll, uh…I’ll go check them out.” He leaves the lab, and Tony’s left by himself.

“I don’t think it was such a good idea to sign him up for that lifeguarding course, boss,” FRIDAY says.

Tony sighs and exits out of the hologram. “Helping others might help him, FRI.” He runs a hand through his hair. “It’s the only way I know to help.”

“You might hurt him.”

Tony looks out the window. “Add that to the list of things I’ll never forgive myself for.”

\---

They start off in the shallow end.

“You guys aren’t always going to have a massive challenge in front of you. Sometimes you’ll just have a kid who’s getting tired, who’s a little distressed, or something along those lines. Just get your buoy and push it under their armpits and get back to the wall.” The instructor paces down the pool deck, and Peter forces himself to take a breath, letting the tension drain from his shoulders.

Michelle pushes her curly hair away from her eyes. She signed up when she heard Peter was doing it, just to make sure that he felt a little safer. Once the instructor finishes explaining the save, she looks to Peter. “You want to be the victim first or should I?”

Peter blinks at her, and his calm starts to diminish. “I-I’ll go…I mean, I’ll just…I’ll rescue you first, if that’s cool.”

She smiles at him and jerks her head to the pool deck. “You start out there.”

He nods, a bit shaken. “Right.”

“And Parker?”

He stops swimming, looking back at her. “Yeah?”

“The first rule of this is not to panic. If you panic, the victim will panic. You’ve gotta stay calm.”

Peter nods again. “Right. Calm. I can do calm. My middle name is calm.”

He’s anything but.

Michelle bounces from foot to foot. She might see if she and Peter can stay a little bit later, considering how terrified he was to just get in to the shallow end. If he can’t conquer even this, he won’t ever get over his fear of the water.

“Go!”

Peter sits on the edge of the deck, carefully sliding in so as not to cause any waves. Once he’s in, he starts swimming out to her, where she splashes around, pushing herself under the surface of the water and back up again. Between bobs, she can see that he seems a bit more certain of himself, not as scared.

He finally reaches her and moves the buoy to push it under her armpits. “What’s your name?” he asks calmly. His hands aren’t shaking now. He switches them around so that he’s kicking her back to the wall.

She pants a little, worn out from fake drowning. “Mi-michelle.”

He nods slowly. “Where do you go to school, Michelle?”

She almost considers flirting with him, but she decides against it. “Midtown Tech.”

He smiles a little. “That’s a good school.”

Before she can say anything else, he stops at the wall and helps her out. The instructor nods. “Good job, Parker.”

Peter looks to Michelle, and the calm façade is gone now. His breaths come rapidly. “Can-can you play the victim again, MJ?”

She wants to give in, really, she does, but it’s not her place – he was enrolled to learn that not all water is bad, not all water is harmful and out to get him. She shakes her head. “Your turn, loser. Go out to the middle and spaz out. But not too much, alright?”

He nods shakily and swims back out to the middle. He flexes his fingers and looks around, waiting for the instructor to call for them to go so he can just get the drowning process over already.

The instructor blows the whistle and Peter starts bobbing in the water. He splashes his arms around, pushes himself underwater, but he mistimes when he comes up for air, and a wall of water crashes into his mouth.

He’s not pretending anymore.

He thrashes around, feeling the cold racing up and down his arms, soaking through his shirt. He tries to call for help, but he gets another wall of water for trying.

Someone shoves something under his arms.

“You’re okay, you’re okay, I’ve got you, you’re okay,” Michelle pants. He can see it in her eyes – it scared her, his PTSD got to her, and God, he just wants to bleach it all from his memory. She carefully turns them around, keeping her eyes on his. “You’re safe.”

He nods, gasping for air.

“Your name is Peter, right?”

He nods again. He doesn’t have the energy to speak.

“You’re sixteen.”

He’s sixteen.

“Your birthday was two weeks ago.”

His birthday was two weeks ago.

“You live in Queens.”

He lives in Queens.

“You’re okay.”

He’s okay.

\---

He hasn’t exactly been looking forward to deep water active victim.

See, the passive victims weren’t so bad, and playing the passive victim wasn’t bad because it was nothing like his time in the ocean. The pool is warm, and the lack of being tossed around and receiving mouthfuls of salt water helped him to relax. It’s just when he has to pretend that he’s back in that ocean, pretend that he’s drowning and is actively seeking help that releases a spike of panic in his brain.

But it’s fine, he’s fine.

The instructor finishes explaining the rescue, and Peter looks at Michelle. He wants to beg her to go easy on him, not to splash around too much, but before he can ask, the instructor says, “Victims…give ‘em hell.”

There go his plans for the evening.

Michelle starts “drowning,” and Peter starts swimming in her direction. When she sees him, she lunges for him, bracing her hands on his shoulders, pushing him down.

He goes under and tries to swim away from her, but she wraps her arms around his throat in a headlock. He doesn’t think, just reaches up and tries to pull her arms away from him. When she doesn’t, he uses more force, holding her wrists out away from him as he kicks to the surface and gasps for breath.

She follows him up and lunges at him again. He panics, kicking away from her, but she has one hand in his hair, and when he tries to get away, she tightens her grip and he screams.

He can’t breathe and she’s not supposed to breathe, and he’s panicking. He manages to slither free of her grip, but the buoy floats up in the process and hits him in the chin, causing him to crash against Michelle, where she again gets him in a headlock.

And that’s where it all goes wrong.

In his panic, he elbows her in the ribs with as much force as he can muster, and even underwater, he can hear her scream in pain. He swims away, but he can’t see the wall anymore because the chlorine is in his eyes, the salt is in his eyes. No matter how much he tries to get up to the surface, he’s moving nowhere, and when he looks down, he notices that the cord on his buoy is caught in the filter. His ankle is stuck in the space between the chair and the wall of the airplane.

He reaches down and tugs once, twice, but these buoys are expensive and he can’t afford to destroy it. Hospital bills are expensive, and he can’t afford to break his ankle. He swims down to pull it free, but he can’t see much, can only see blue upon blue upon blue. Someone jumps in, and he’s still scared, still panicking.

His cord is ripped free of the filter, and someone’s arm wraps around his ribs, and he’s being pulled up, up, up into the land of the living. He gasps for air as soon as he can, and it’s cool and refreshing and freeing.

By the time he regains his senses, he sees Michelle huddling in the corner of the pool, clutching her ribs with her hand, regarding him with fear in her eyes.

He did that.

He looks up at the instructor, who looks like he was about to jump in himself. “Can-can I call Tony, please?”

The instructor nods, and Peter slowly swims to the wall. He climbs out of the pool, hurrying for his towel, hurrying for his phone, his saving grace. He wipes his face with the towel and then dries off his hand so he can scroll through his phone and find Tony’s contact.

Tony picks up on the first ring. “Yeah, kid?”

Peter chokes out a sob. “I need you to pick me up.”

\---

In the months since the accident last summer, Tony gets significantly less sleep than he used to. Sometimes, Rhodey will slip a sedative into his coffee, but it’s not always successful, and Tony still wakes up in a panic, still tasting salt water, still feeling the chill of the freezing water running down his spine.

He’s tried everything – building suits, modifying his tech, improving his company, counting sheep, reading books, anything he can think of to help. He tries meditating, tries checking Peter’s homework, but nothing works, nothing ever works. He sits and stares at the wall, and when he blinks, he sees an ocean wave, and he ducks before it can crash over him.

When it’s cold, when it’s dark, he can see Peter’s shivering frame, following him as his lips turn blue, as his body becomes stiff. When it’s especially quiet, he can hear Peter’s sobs for help, the roar of the ocean waves, the sound of his voice fighting against the wind so he can be heard. But he’s never heard. No, his voice dies on the wind, drowned out by the crash of the waves, and Peter keeps crying for his dead mentor.

He shakes his head, picking up a stack of papers and dropping them on the floor. The sound makes him jump a little, but it’s better than walking upstairs to see Peter cowering on the living room chair, rocking back and forth as he keeps whispering it was his fault. It doesn’t matter how many times Tony reassures Peter that Michelle is fine, it’s only a couple of bruised ribs – he’s scared of himself, scared of what he can do, and scared that he’ll hurt someone else.

Anything is better than seeing a kid who reminds Tony too much of himself.

He runs his thumb over his bottom lip, deep in thought. It’s not often that he admits that he needs help, but he does. He really, desperately needs help. And maybe it’s just the song that’s playing over his speaker, but he knows he’s helpless.

He leans forward, folding his hands and resting his chin on them. “God,” he prays, “God, help me.”

\---

**MAY 12, 2018. SATURDAY. 12:35 PM. ATLANTIC OCEAN.**

He’s not over his fear of the water yet, but it’s better. Maybe it’s just because Ned’s by his side, maybe it’s because he’s on a boat with lifeboats and life jackets and a tracker on his person. Maybe it’s because Michelle’s not scared of him anymore, not since she practically burst into his room half-past midnight five weeks ago, demanding why he refused to speak to her.

They won Nationals for the second year in a row, thanks to MJ’s leadership and Ned scoring the game-winning point. To celebrate, Tony let the Decathlon team vote on what they wanted to do, and what do you know – the majority ruled to go on a cruise on one of his boats.

Peter’s fingers dance on the railing of the boat, and just being this close to the ocean – close enough to smell the salt, close enough to feel the waves spray into his face – terrifies him. He wears Under Armor underneath his clothes, as if that’ll protect him if the boat goes down, but the memory of that cold – the cold that traveled deep into his heart, that froze over each muscle until it couldn’t move, until he could barely hang his head – is still fresh in his mind.

The ocean is miles deep, and he’d rather be anywhere but close to it – let alone on it – but he’s here now. He’s here and he can’t really escape. Flash might make fun of him for how often he walks around with his life jacket on, but his life is more important than his dignity.

Close to one, a storm begins to take form. Peter clutches tightly to the rails as lightning flashes and thunder rolls. He remembers how Tony told him that Thor helped lead Rhodey to them. He remembers how Tony told him that the god of thunder mourned him when he died, and now all he can wonder is what Thor is planning to do now.

The rest of the team takes shelter in the cabins, and Peter almost follows them once the rain begins to fall, once the cold begins to set it, but he remembers, remembers his foot getting stuck, remembers the desperation that followed.

So he stays where he is.

Even as the boat begins to capsize, even as it’s diverted from its original course, Peter clutches tightly to the railing. The cold causes him to shiver, and he tries to force memories to the back of his mind, but they’re stronger than he is. The waves are stronger than he remembers – they toss the ship like it’s a toy, like the ocean wants to crumble it in its unforgiving fist. Waves rise above the top of the deck and crash down hard, drowning him in freezing water, and he remembers. He holds tight to the rails, but he remembers. It scares him, and he remembers.

The waves grow stronger, and the god of thunder mourns. The waves grow stronger and lightning flashes, thunder rolls. The waves are bigger and colder, the rain pours down upon him, and he can feel the cold despite the long underwear he wears underneath. Maybe it’s phantom cold and maybe it’s not, but it’s cold, cold, so cold, and his lips turn blue, and he looks up to the sky and begs God to let him be free from this. Tears stream down his cheeks and he begs God. His voice cracks, and he begs God. His knuckles turn white, and his chest heaves, but he still begs God.

Not once does the storm calm. Not once do the waves or the wind quiet. Not once does Peter get what he asked for.

Finally, the ocean roars in anger and tosses the ship. It capsizes, and Peter can hear it break against the waves, and he screams, finally letting go of the railing in an effort to find MJ and Ned and try and keep them safe.

Michelle opens the door as he tries to scramble over to them, her eyes wide in fear. Ned grips her shirt in his fists, looking like a little kid. That’s when Peter realizes that he has no idea how to combat this. He’s just as scared as they are. He doesn’t know how to get out of this. He doesn’t know how to protect them. All he knows to do is tilt his face towards the sky, and in his panic and tears, shouts, “Please!”

The storm doesn’t abate.

Over the roar of the waves and the rumble of thunder, he miraculously hears the beautiful sound of an iron suit. Iron Patriot appears through the rain, dodging waves. He doesn’t waste time. “Who’s the worst swimmer?” he shouts over the storm.

They all look at each other and point to Flash. Rhodey nods and takes him first, flying him God only knows where, but he returns soon, and he takes the next kid and the next, until only Peter and MJ remain.

And that’s when a wave crashes into Rhodey, sending him into the side of what remains of the ship.

Peter doesn’t know if the Iron Patriot suit can withstand so much water, but he knows well enough that it can’t withstand the ocean as it is. He screams at MJ to stay where she is, and he climbs over the railing to dive into the ocean.

He can’t panic. Panic is bad.

He can’t see, but he can see a blue light floating down, and his brain hurts with the sudden spike of adrenaline. He swims down towards it, fighting against the water that’s ever stronger than him. He’s never close enough to Rhodey, but he has to try, he can’t leave the man who never left him. He stretches his arm as far as it will reach, wincing as he strains his arm too far, but he can feel the metal of Rhodey’s hand, and he grabs tight as soon as he can.

He’s underwater, deep and cold, but he has to get to the surface. The water’s stronger, the water’s always stronger. Rhodey needs to breathe. He needs to breathe. It’s his worst nightmare all over again.

Somehow, by some miracle, he kicks his way up to the surface, where he grips Rhodey’s faceplate in his hand and he tries to rip it off. He’s not strong enough, but he tries again, and again, and again, until finally it comes off, and he can see that Rhodey needs help. Iron Man hovers over the waves, reaching as Michelle balances on the railing, stretching her hand toward Tony’s own.

A wave comes and crashes over them, knocking MJ into the sea. Tony loses control and falls in as well. The wave comes again, stronger and larger this time, and Peter and Rhodey are sent back under.

_Cold. Dark. Wet. Heavy. Loud._

But, finally…

_Silent._

**Author's Note:**

> Also, I personally headcanon Tony as agnostic, or at the very most, he wants to believe in God. But that’s my personal headcanon


End file.
